


Harmless

by Elisexyz



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e09 Pied-A-Terre, Gen, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Aborted calls in the middle of the night are probably the furthest thing from a good sign that Gil could imagine. Coda to 1x09.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 58
Kudos: 203
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Harmless

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the "Cradling Someone In Their Arms" prompt [on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card on Tumblr](https://heytheredeann.tumblr.com/post/189555535689/cradling-someone-in-their-arms-fill-for-the-bad).  
>    
>  Apparently, I am very weak for these two LOL.

He makes an attempt, out of courtesy, though he highly doubts that it will get him any results.

“Bright!” he calls out, bumping his fist against the door, probably louder than it’d be appropriate in the middle of the night. “Bright! It’s Gil, can I come in?”

He waits a few moments for an answer that doesn’t come, his fingers already playing with his spare key. He always keeps it on him, alongside the key to his own house, because you never know. Which is actually a lifesaver right now, because he barely had the presence of mind to put some decent clothes on before he bolted out of his house.

“I’m coming in!” he eventually calls out, because he would much prefer to get yelled at for intruding than to risk leaving Malcolm alone in the midst of what is probably a situation scratching rock bottom.

The kid _called_ him. Sure, he hung up as soon as Gil answered, barely giving him time to realize what name was flashing on the screen in his sleepy haze, and he sent him to voicemail when he tried to call him back, but he _called_.

One of the worst things about Malcolm, bless his heart, is that he wants to do things _alone_. The worse the situation, the more he isolates himself, in an ill-advised attempt at not staining anyone else with his own dirt.

If it got to the point that he gave into the temptation of calling him—Gil really had no other choice but seeing for himself, because he would end up driving himself crazy with the wildest – and not entirely improbable, is what’s worse – scenarios otherwise.

“Bright?” he calls out, carefully stepping in. The house seems to be as in order as usual, no chairs thrown around, no sign of a struggle or even a breakdown—there’s a knife on the floor. _Planted_ in the floor.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, rushing to kneel besides it, his heart throbbing as he half-expects to be confronted by a pool of blood. It seems clean, though. Just—a knife out of place. Clean.

He allows himself to draw a sigh of relief, though this doesn’t diminish the number of frantic questions he has about the situation. Pushing himself up, he takes a quick look around. “Bright?” he tries again, his eyes darting to every corner he can imagine he’d squeeze himself in.

He used to do that as a kid too, making himself as small as he could manage and trying to disappear in a forgotten corner of the world. The sight always tugged at Gil’s chest in the most unpleasant of ways.

He finds Malcolm holed up between his bed and the window, cheeks in flames and tears everywhere. He doesn’t raise his eyes on him when he stops at a few feet of distance, his throat closing up and no useful words coming to the surface.

“Hey,” Gil eventually says, flexing his fingers. It’s meant as a gentle warning that he’s there, because Malcolm only has eyes for his trembling hand, his other arm thrown over the mattress, loosely restrained.

He was afraid he’d startle him, but Malcolm doesn’t show any sign of surprise or fear when he finally turns to him, huge pleading eyes fixating in Gil’s.

“I can’t do it,” he says, hoarsely. “I—I have to—I _need_ to just—” He holds up his right wrist, shaking his arm to highlight how loose the restraints are. “I _tried_ , but I just—” He holds his left hand in front of his face. It’s trembling much more than Gil has ever seen before.

He takes a second to swallow and pull himself together, willing the tears behind his eyes to go away, because Malcolm certainly doesn’t need him to be upset right now, what he needs is someone who can be a firm, calming presence, take the situation at hand—

Gil slowly steps forward, his eyes intently trying to catch any sign that the intrusion might be unwelcome, but Malcolm only stares, opening and closing his mouth a few times to say something but not getting any words out.

When Gil crutches down in front of him, Malcolm doesn’t pull back. That’s an encouraging sign, is it not?

“Is that why you called me?” Gil asks, gently, gesturing with his head to the restrained wrist. “You needed help with that?”

Malcolm shakes his head once, letting out a whimper as his eyes visibly fill with tears. “I screwed up,” he chokes out, a self-deprecating smile twisting his lips.

Gil is half tempted to make a joke to break the tension, but he suspects the kid isn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate it. “How do you mean?” he asks instead, his muscles itching to reach out, though he isn’t sure if that would be a good idea.

Malcolm is trembling slightly, shaking his head before pressing his cheek against the bed. “I almost _killed_ her,” he blurts out, desperation mixed with something close to amusement. Though that’s probably only hysterics.

Gil frowns. “Who?”

Malcolm doesn’t seem to be listening. “I _swear_ —” he says, desperately, suddenly pushing himself up to sit straighter and leaning forward with a manic look on his face. “I _swear_ to you that—I was completely sure—the girl was trying to kill me, alright? I needed to defend myself, I—god, I was _so_ sure she was real, I—” He shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment and tilting his head to the side. “I woke up, and Eve was there, and I was holding a _knife_.” He gives him a pleading look, like he somehow had the solution to fix it in his pocket. “I could have _killed_ her.”

Gil takes a sharp breath, not even putting too much effort into trying to make sense of the story: he figures that the knife he’s talking about is the one on the floor, and he found no blood. He doubts that if someone had been wounded Malcom would have had the presence of mind to clean it up. There was no blood neither in the house nor outside of the apartment, so he is going to assume that no one was injured and deal with the situation at hand.

“Okay,” he says, offering a brisk nod and what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “How about we get off the floor and—and maybe get you glass of water, help you calm down?”

He tries to reach for him, but this time Malcolm does shoot back, like he has suddenly been burned. He looks terrified.

“No!” he protests, frantically. He holds out his hand as if to keep him at a safe distance. “No, no, you need to—I need your help with this, you can’t be here if I’m free, I’m—it’s not _safe_.”

“Kid,” Gil says, attempting another smile, to let him know that everything is okay and that he isn’t scared. “You aren’t going to hurt me.”

“No, no, see, I—I thought I’d _know_ what was real and what not,” Malcolm tries to explain, that manic look that always worries Gil to death making an appearance again. “But I didn’t! I don’t _know_ , and—and it’s not _safe_.”

Gil opens his mouth to protest again, but Malcom is faster, eyes full of tears and his voice pleading.

“I don’t want to stab you,” he says, thin and scared and literally stomping on his heart.

Gil takes a deep breath, swallowing back tears once again and waiting a few moments before speaking, wanting to be reasonably sure that his voice will sound firm. “You don’t have a knife,” he only points out, matter-of-fact.

Malcolm frowns, blinking at him a few times before looking at his own hands. Gil takes it as a good sign.

“And believe me, even if you tried a frontal fight, I’d win,” Gil adds, his tone a little lighter and Malcolm seemingly having nothing to counter with. He takes that as a good enough sign that he moves forward, reaching over for the kid’s restrained wrist. “May I?” he tries, waiting for Malcolm’s eyes to meet his before proceeding. There is no real permission, but the lack of a protest is as good as.

When he’s completely free, Malcolm curls a little on himself, shooting him a fearful look. Gil reaches out for his arms, giving him a gentle squeeze and realizing just how _much_ the kid is still trembling.

He should probably be offering a solution, words of comfort, _something_ , but the only thing he wants to do is take him and wrap him in a safe bubble for the rest of eternity. He can’t exactly do that, but—close enough.

“Come here,” he mutters, pulling him forward so he can properly wrap his arms around him, some tension leaving his shoulders when Malcolm not only reciprocates the embrace, his fingers gripping tight onto his coat, but he presses his cheek against Gil’s shoulder, relaxing somewhat.

Short of air, Gil tries to take a discreet breath, something itching in his throat as his hand shoots up to cradle Malcolm’s head.

He is so damn _grateful_ that he called.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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